The Ventriloquist
by Ayaia of the Moon
Summary: Death is a weird guy. But he plays favorites. What exactly is Death's relationship with Shinichi Kudo? Crossover fic: The Book Thief's Death meets Case Closed/Detective Conan's Shinichi. Assignment for my English class! Critique is adored. Rated T.


My own story is a sad one, I think. I try to not dwell on it. I think instead on the stories of others. And, of course, I amuse myself to no end thinking about the way you humans seem to always portray me.

*****AN INTERESTING FACT*****

**Humans fear me, and so they**

**paint me up in some strange**

**get-up in their mind's eye,**

**hoping that it makes them**

**feel better about me and**

**what I do.**

**It doesn't.**

Certainly different cultures see me in different ways, and in different time periods I am likewise not the same as I am painted now; I am a great skeletal reaper, complete with a great scythe; otherwise I am a God of some horrible hell of bones and fire – I am a simple ferryman, asking for payment in coins deposited in the mouths of the dead upon their demise and burial, or else I am a great, indescribable creature with wings and skulls adorning my person.

***** WHAT DO YOU CALL DEATH? *****

**Angel of Death**

**Devil of Death**

**Angel of Dark and Light**

**Abaddon**

**Angel of the Abyss**

**Thanatos**

**Keres**

**Ankou**

**Śmierć**

**Pesta**

**Giltinė**

**Yamaraj**

**Yanluo**

**Izanagi**

**Shinigami**

One story of particular interest to me is not written in one of the books in my many pockets. It is documented, to be sure, but it is not a history I am eager to know. It surely tells of dark things, and of people who have been my superiors over the years, organizing my work by the people they slowly wrapped in the folds of their darkness, killing them silently.

Souls who are killed silently are often hard to console. They are rendered mute, and cannot rest until their story is told.

The humans who try to tell the stories of silent death are nothing more than gifted ventriloquists in most cases. That or they are janitors; cleaning up after me; dealing with the husks of souls in a proper manner; one that brings humans solace.

One such boy – for a boy he was, and yet remains in this world – fancies himself as one of my janitors. One of the ventriloquists of the dead. He has evaded me many times. His name is Shinichi Kudo, and he likes to call himself a detective.

***** A POINT OF NOTE *****

**The deaths which Shinichi Kudo**

**has been subjected to:**

**Poison **

**Gunshot **

**Stabbing**

**Bludgeoning**

**Asphyxia**

**Drowning**

**Heart Attack**

**And yet he evades me still.**

There are not many whose stories I deem interesting enough to remember; only a handful of whose stories I keep safe in my pockets, revisiting when I can and pondering as I go about my work.

Shinichi Kudo fights me most violently when I would claim him. His soul is resilient and slippery, making it hard to carry away.

Perhaps, though, the most interesting thing about him is the story of our first meeting. I tried to take him once when the baseball bat connected with his skull. He fought me away. I tried to take him once more when the poison started to break down his cellular structure. When he fought again, I asked him why on earth he would choose to live. I never understand why humans fight so hard for the short, pointless existence in which they dwell.

*****A FACT ABOUT DEATH *****

**I am neither a reaper nor a ferryman;**

**I am neither a God nor a dark creature.**

**I am neither the victim nor the villain of my fate.**

**I am a result.**

**And when I speak to living souls, **

**they almost never speak back.**

**Almost.**

"I have something to live for."

That's what Shinichi Kudo said. As he drifted in and out of unconsciousness. And accompanied with this statement, there was a picture. He is an only child, and yet the picture didn't feature his parents. He was a gifted soccer player, and yet the picture didn't feature a lofty goal at fame. He was a brilliant detective, and not even this was the picture in his head.

The picture was of a girl – ten years old – she had been playing a game, hiding from her friends, but had fallen asleep in her hiding spot. She had been scared that no one would find her, but then someone had. Shinichi Kudo. Ten years old.

His essence was no longer in danger of drifting into the realm where I could take his soul, and I had work to do, so I left, intrigued at this boy who loved his best friend, but hadn't told her.

Over time, I have crossed paths with this boy more times than I care to count. Sometimes to have another go at retrieving his slippery soul. Sometimes to retrieve the soul of another. He always seemed to be there – whenever there was a silent death in his little town in the corner of the world, he was there; ready to provide his voice for the victim. His friends and superiors joked in serious tones that he seemed to be a sort of magnet that attracted me.

I found this reference quite amusing.

I know that his story will take an interesting turn soon, though; I carried the soul of a wicked man on my back yesterday. A man responsible for much of my work. Shinichi Kudo was there when I left, and he was smiling in a way that he always smiled when he had figured out the story he needed to tell when he acted as my ventriloquist.

***** A CLOSING REMARK *****

**Humans depress me, and they**

**sometimes frighten me with their**

**ingenuity. They can be loud, obnoxious,**

**and unforgiving. Their colors are dark**

**reds, harsh steel grays, and unforgiving**

**shades of darkest black.**

**When humans are interesting, though,**

**new colors blossom. Pinks, yellows, and**

**chocolatey browns.**

**Shinichi Kudo is an intense blue,**

**with the softest tinge of red.**

**His is the kind of color you can**

**smile at and tuck under your**

**pillow at night.**

**His is the color of good dreams**

**and better futures.**

**I associate this shade of blue with hope.**


End file.
